Dead And Buried. John Brennan

old times’ sake?

      ‘Not this time, Patrick,’ he said.

      Being in the library took him back to his student days. Hours he’d spent, back then, in the low-lit hush of the Queen’s reading room, hunkered down over textbooks and medical dictionaries, cramming for the finals that he knew he’d never pass, hadn’t a hope in hell, wondered why he bothered…

      He’d done his best to drink the campus bars dry of Guinness the day his results came through. God, but he could use a drink now.

      He found Lisa Galloway in the ‘Criminology’ section. A copper’s idea of a joke. She was leafing unconvincingly through a thick volume on Theories of Criminal Justice. Galloway had always struck Conor as someone who’d learned her job the hard way.

      She looked up as Conor took a seat opposite her at the table. The low angle of the green-shaded lamp gave a sinister cast to her smile.

      ‘Hello, Conor.’

      ‘Detective.’

      ‘How’ve you been?’

      ‘Fine.’ Conor leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the tabletop. ‘Listen, Detective. I just want to say what I’ve come here to say.’

      Galloway shrugged. ‘Go ahead. I’m listening.’

      ‘Come closer. I don’t want to shout.’

      ‘Okay. It’s a library, after all.’ She smiled again, then drew in her chair and leaned across the table, propping herself on her elbows, until her face was just a few inches from his. ‘Better?’

      ‘Aye.’ Conor nodded grimly.

      ‘So go ahead.’

      He told her about the tyre-tracks in the yard and the body on the operating table. He told her about the track marks on the girl’s arm and, reluctantly, he told her about the note. When he’d finished, he sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Easy part over. Galloway met his gaze: he’d thought, momentarily, that he’d seen her eyes widen, read a quickening of interest in her expression as he’d told his story. But that’d gone, been quickly hidden, if it’d ever been there at all – and now she was watching him levelly. This was where the test began.

      ‘And the note’s from Patrick Cameron?’

      Conor nodded.

      ‘How d’you know?’

      ‘I just do.’

      ‘Quite a big favour to ask,’ the detective said thoughtfully.

      ‘I’m family.’

      ‘I’ve got a brother-in-law. My sister’s husband. Pete. He lives in Lisburn.’ Galloway rested her cheek on the heel of her hand. ‘I might ask him to give me a hand shifting a washing machine or to borrow his hedge trimmer. I’m not sure how he’d take to me leaving dead bodies on his patio.’

      ‘Well, I’ve got, y’know. The facilities.’

      ‘The furnace.’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘And that’s all?’

      ‘Unless you know better.’

      ‘This wouldn’t,’ Galloway said, ‘have anything to do with you running away to Africa?’

      ‘I didn’t run anywhere,’ he said. ‘A job came up abroad. I took it. Lots of people do the same. Wouldn’t you? Do you want references? Doctor Paul Nkono, Mara Conservancy, Dr Kipenzi Kamande, University of Nairobi. Did you think I was hiding out in the jungle while I was away, Detective? I was working.’

      ‘Okay.’ A wintry smile. ‘Let’s leave that for now.’

      Conor nodded, breathed out through his nose: ‘Okay.’

      He felt sure that, in the gloomy quiet of the library, Galloway could hear his heart pounding against his ribs – could hear the giveaway tremor of panic in his voice. Hell, the way she looked at him, he felt like the woman could read his bloody mind.

      ‘Cameron’s testing you,’ she said suddenly.

      ‘I’ve a feeling he’s not the only one.’

      ‘What d’you mean by that?’

      ‘Never mind.’ Conor ran a hand through his hair. He tried to think clearly. ‘Testing me. Why would he do that?’

      ‘Why indeed? What I do know, is that you and I are going to have to start being straight with one another. This is business. You want your life back. I want Patrick Cameron – and I’m going to get him.’